Thoughts, A Scattered Wasteland
by Blkwidow77
Summary: What if... Botan had lost her mind?


.

.

.

Ah well, I'm pretty sure that I'm avoiding writing the longer story I have going called "The Great Rewind" but that's nothing new. lol ~sticks tongue out~

Lately, I've had this fascination with Botan's character. She really is an interesting creature with all kinds of history that the series never talks about. Like, for example, 'What exactly was she when she was still alive and human? What happened to her? How did she die? Was her hair blue when she was living? And was she the same chirper person back then?"

So on and such forth. So that after awhile, I also began wondering...

What if... One day Botan just went crazy?

So here you are. A one shot of what Botan might be like, if she went crazy and wound up in the looney bin. It's written like diary entries.

.

.

.

__________________________________________________________________________________

.

.

"**Thoughts, A Scattered Wasteland****"**

.

.

.

**Room 709-A  
(Security Level: 3)**  
.

.

.

_Bleach is prohibited, but the absence of color is not~  
__._

_._

_.___

_**Nov. 23rd, 1995  
3:03 a.m.**_

Yes, I have those thoughts all the time.

They are common as cockroaches, and just as diseased.

The moonlight is barely making it in, through the double reinforced glass of this room. And the chair I'm crouched on is hard, unsupportive. I can't cry, though my chest is being squeezed like a body on the train tracks, that didn't make it in a game of chicken. In some ten years, it's festered.

In the window, I see myself as I am; mostly translucent.

Wonder how long my sentence is, written down for me in foreign ink. Couldn't begin to say how much time has already passed. There's a horse fly on the wall, sleeping against the white paint, glowing blue in the moon's aura, and I am transfixed.

My roommate, does me the grace of pretending to sleep but I know better. She does not say _"Don't worry, you'll be ok. It will get better."_

And for this,

_I like her.  
_

.

.

.

.

.

_**Nov. 25th, 1995  
9:27 a.m.**_

I want to operate on the wood dresser bolted onto the floor.

They've taken away my purple pen, for writing on the walls and people, that look like paper.

All the places I wrote:

... _'This is the way in~'_

........................ &

.................................. _'This is the way out~'_,

have been rubbed away.

There are no doorbells, no angels, and no visitors. This is when the path disappears, before and after me.

Proof, that everything is nothing but dark space waiting to suck in, and it's not just in the catacombs of my mind,

_I'm not crazy._

The clipboard wearing my name like a dollar store dress, is marked 'Warning: Violent'. Highlighted mustard. Sickly color, shines off my glass eyes. It's malnutrition but now I am only confronted, when they travel in packs. Damn mob mentality. They won't take me alive. _(dead, I can't help)_

Yes, they murmur of maximum lock down, where they cannot put me, it's only men.

I hear those male voices wailing, screaming caricatures of cursing in a stryofoam cup. They are behind a different set of double doors, I can never see. Only running walls,

and resounding footsteps down a long solitary hallway, of those people that are still allowed to wear shoes

_like thoughts, in a scattered wasteland._

.

.

.

.

_**Nov. 27th, 1995  
10:09 p.m.**_

Lights out, is at 8 p.m.

My roommate is talking.

Limping florescent light of the hallway, is crawling on its belly into the bottom of our room. A door that never closes, and two women that are never entirely alone. Suicidals on twenty four hour watch, in the same room, makes it easier for them,

_easier for us._

Her voice mostly sounds like a winter breeze on the tail of Fall, an evening in a city park beneath old scar faced trees that lace stars overhead. I freeze to listen. She understands that I do not know how to talk, without sounding angry. Why it's just easier to never say anything. Maybe it's why she likes me.

She keeps talking and I feel the calm of a quiet summer floating on a river. It doesn't matter what she says, but she tells me how much her husband loves her, over and over. He is a Buddha reincarnated, filled with the enormous hands of compassion.

_She is a broken record, of a better tomorrow, against a sky set for Hurricanes._

So I've learned to stop asking why I can't see her from the stomach down, why she's always covered with a sheet. Never gets up, even to use the bathroom. She won't share methods, just reasons that she shouldn't have done this again. That's she really too old.

While I look like I've been running with silver scissors. I don't need mirrors.

I'll leave this place before she does because my insurance runs out. Asking for her address to write her.

But she refused to give it to me,

saying that there's no point. She always finishes what she started.

.

.

.

.

**Dec. 7th, 2005 **

**8:18 pm**

.

.

The room is empty.

It's just me and a large gray moth that keeps beating itself against the window.

It wants out. We want out.

The window is double paned and thick. It does not slide. It does not open its mouth at all.

The moth and I, we beat the window together.

**pound. pound. pound.**

_We want out._

___________________________________________________________________________________

_._

_._

_._

So that's it. Short and sweet. Just kind of like a 'moment of'.

I suppose I could write more for this story. But there's no one really around fanfiction anymore that bothers to review or say a damn thing. So hey, if others are lazy, I can be lazy too. lol

.

.


End file.
